


Human

by thankspizzaman



Category: Original Work
Genre: Again, F/F, Freeform, Gen, Poetry, References to bullying, Self Harm References, i did a thing, im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankspizzaman/pseuds/thankspizzaman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first scar came when she was five years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, people. I'm sorry about being really slow at updating but have another (kind of badly written) poem? 
> 
> WARNING: If descriptions of self-harm and depression are triggers for you, don't read this. No, seriously, the whole poem is about a girl who struggles with depression/bullying and there's like five stanzas (really long stanzas) going into details of suicide.

The first scar came when she was five years old.

It came in the form of dishes breaking, and  
voices rising, and the smell of alcohol on her  
father’s breath as he tried to forget.

It came in the form of tears falling like  
a cascade, the pen shaking in her   
mother’s hand, the signature nearly  
illegible, the papers stained with the   
fragments of a fantasy life.

The second scar came when she was thirteen.

It came in the form of gaining curves,  
real curves, the kind where her stomach  
was proportionate with her cup size. 

It came in the form of ringing laughter,  
and insults followed by a “just joking”  
as if that made it hurt less.

It came in the form of the guy she   
liked laughing in her face, as he   
became another face in the crowd,  
all laughing at her, but never with her.

The third, fourth, and fifth scars came when she was fifteen.

It came in the form of staring at the girls  
in the locker room, came with the   
realization that the only thing straight   
about her was her hair.

It came in the form of hearing   
“dyke” and “faggot” and “lesbo”  
day in and day out, even though  
there is a difference between  
just liking girls and liking people,   
regardless of gender.

It came in the form of having  
her best friend stop returning   
her calls, came with her best   
friend’s laugh being the loudest  
in her head.

It’s impossible to say for sure when the rest of the scars formed.

It was a slow build, it was years of hating   
herself, years of shopping in the plus size  
section, years of wishing her breasts were  
smaller, her butt was smaller, her heart   
was smaller, years of crying herself to  
sleep, years of perfectly concealed cuts  
and bruises, years of wanting to be better,  
wanting to be pretty, wanting to be liked.

It was years and years of self-loathing  
and self-pity feeding off of one another,  
hating herself for hating herself, her pain  
feeding her hate and her hate feeding her  
pain, a vicious cycle that controlled her.

 

She stands in front of her mirror today,  
her skin flawless, no blemishes,  
no bruises, her lips drawn into  
a perfect little smile, her teeth  
aligned with one another, dazzlingly  
white, nothing about her reflection   
out of place, nothing to signify the hurt   
she feels inside.

But she knows, oh, how she knows,  
if her skin was peeled off, if her muscles  
were cut away, her nerves and veins and  
arteries were gone, everything but her skeleton  
stripped away,  
if she was laid bare, down to her bones,  
she knows that they would be marked,  
cut and barely held together,  
nearly but not quite breaking at the seams,

if they could see her bones,  
then they'd believe her,  
they’d understand that you don’t  
have to be black and blue   
in order for someone to hurt you;  
they’d realize that words are   
the worst kinds of weapons,  
because your body heals   
but your mind never forgets,  
memories are always the   
strongest thing a person has.

Her cheeks feel wet, and her  
fingers ache where they’re clutched  
around the orange bottle,  
she realizes with a start that this could  
be the last time she feels this anymore.

If she does this, she’ll never have  
to feel this pain again, she’ll never have  
this empty hole in her heart because  
it’ll be full of pills, pills that’ll save her   
from a life of pain and sadness, because   
her death may not be ideal or socially  
acceptable but it’s better than having to   
live a lie, it’s better than having to fake a smile  
when her relatives asks when she’s “going to   
settle down, she’s not getting any younger,   
you know,” it’s better than having her mom  
look at her, with concern, eyeing her bracelet  
covered wrists with resignation in her eyes. 

Still, even though she knows that it’ll be   
better this way, she can’t, she can’t do it,  
she opens the bottle, touches it to her lips,  
doesn’t swallow, she does it twenty times,  
like a routine, open, touch, chicken out, lower  
her arms, repeat;  
she wants to swallow but her muscles won’t   
work, her body doesn’t want to listen, it’s yet  
another thing she can’t do right, why can’t   
she ever do anything right?

She yells at herself, do it, do it you fucking  
coward, stop being a bitch and swallow   
the damn pills, don’t fail at yet another  
thing, you failed at being pretty, failed at  
being smart, failed at everything, don’t  
fucking fail at this.

She can’t do it though.   
She tries but she can’t do it.

She doesn’t remember throwing the punch.

One minute, the mirror’s fine, the  
next, cracked, her hand bloody,  
her reflection distorted.

She doesn’t remember hearing  
the door open, thought she locked  
it, but one minute, she’s alone,  
the next, he’s there, holding her,  
removing the bottle from her   
hands, she yells at him for  
that, just wants the bottle back,  
wants to finish what she started,   
but he’s there, he’s unyielding,   
throwing the bottle in the tub,  
never once breaking eye contact,   
he’s there and he smiles, a wobbly  
but warm smile, he smiles at her,  
tells her it’ll be okay, he’s here,   
she’s never going to be alone again.

She doesn’t remember much of what  
happened after that, only knows that  
if he wasn’t there, as a friend, a   
brother, if he didn’t realize what  
the vague text really meant, she wouldn’t  
be standing today.

She wouldn’t have met the love of her  
life, a petite little asian who smiles with  
her eyes, she wouldn’t have her job  
as executive editor of one of the world’s  
most famous fashion magazines, wouldn’t  
have half the things she has today.

She goes down for breakfast, and   
smiles, not a fake smile from when  
her life was shit, but a real smile from her  
heart, that’s been beaten down and   
crapped on but has survived, and is  
stronger than it was before.


End file.
